


Ammunition

by holyhael



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotionally Hurt Dean, Episode: s01e10 Asylum, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 08:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10636155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyhael/pseuds/holyhael
Summary: Dean works his knife into the end of the shotgun shell. This is always the hardest part about making new rock salt rounds; he’s slipped with the knife more than a few times, and his fingers show the proof. But once the shell opens, it’s smooth sailing from there on out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> written for the wincest writing challenge! my prompt was [this cap](http://www.homeofthenutty.com/supernatural/screencaps/displayimage.php?album=10&pid=115489#top_display_media) from the episode asylum.

Dean works his knife into the end of the shotgun shell. This is always the hardest part about making new rock salt rounds; he’s slipped with the knife more than a few times, and his fingers show the proof. But once the shell opens, it’s smooth sailing from there on out.

Even as experienced as he is, having done this since he was eight, it takes him a full minute to work the damn cap loose, and then with a few more twists with his knife it opens up like an accordion. The shell is full of lead beads: shiny, metallic smelling, and absolutely worthless when dealing with ghosts. Dean dumps them into a plastic bag, balancing the now empty shell on the counter. He’s halfway through filling the shell up with rock salt when the door opens, startling Dean’s focus and causing him to spill salt everywhere.

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean bemoans. He throws a glare his brother’s way, not even bothering to focus on him before turning back around. “Ever heard of knocking?”

“What are you doing?” Sam’s voice is heavy with a scowl; his young face is etched with it too. He tries to bat Dean’s hands away as he’s sweeping up the salt. “I told you I would do it.”

Yeah, he had. Laden with guilt and seeking a punishment Dean wouldn’t give him, Sam assigned himself the task of making new salt rounds. It was the least he could do. And Dean was gung-ho for that plan, but having to sit in bed all day while Sam - who left the asylum with only a bloody nose and a couple bruises - cleaned up their mess. Dean needed to do something with his hands or else he was going to die of boredom.

Dean shrugs. “Oh well.”

Sam lets out a weighty sigh. “Whatever. I got dinner.” He hefts the paper sack in his hand to draw Dean’s attention to it. The sizable grease stain saturating the bottom tells Dean that Sam is still trying to make amends. “Bacon burger: extra onions, extra cholesterol.”

He drops the bag into Dean’s lap. Dean peers inside to see a plethora of fries piled on the bottom, having spilled from the sleeves. The bacon burger is wrapped in a wax paper imprinted with the logo for Cooley’s Diner.

“Hello, beautiful.” Dean lifts the burger out and inhales deeply. His mouth waters, and his stomach growls. Laying a hand over his noisy middle, he realizes he hasn’t eaten since his piss poor excuse for breakfast. He shovels fries into his mouth to rectify his abdominal situation. “Get anything for yourself?”

“I ate on the way here. Hey, how about you get working on that, and I’ll put together a few more bullets?”

Dean relinquishes his station, making a beeline for the microwave so he can heat up his meal. Once his food is turning inside the dingy machine - holy shit, when was the last time this thing has been cleaned? - he turns to look at Sam. Sam is already at work, picking up where Dean left off. The microwave beeps at the same time Sam has finished the bullet Dean abandoned; now sealed up with its new ammunition, Sam positions it beside the army of four Dean made in his absence.

Everything’s lined up to be an evening of tense silence punctuated by the sounds of shotgun shells and salt and brotherly jibes about each other’s eating habits - a typical Tuesday night for the brothers Winchester. Dean sits on the bed with his food in his lap and his back against the headboard, and rather than think about things unpleasant he wonders how many couples have knocked the headboard into the wall, wonders about the origin of the stain on the ceiling, wonders how long it’ll take for Sam to break the peace.

He isn’t left wondering long.

The knife slips out of Sam’s hand and falls to the floor with a clatter. Sam swears as he brings his hand up to his mouth; Dean spies blood.

“How bad is it?” Dean asks, trying to swallow both his worry and his burger. It doesn’t matter to his fucked up conscience that Sam’s is only a minor injury - it only knows that Sam is hurt, Sam is hurt, Sam is hurt.

Before Sam can respond, Dean is standing up and walking over. Sam will always be like a child to Dean, no matter how tall he grows. He looks like a child with a paper cut: wide-eyed, innocent, frustrated. With a gentle tug, Dean pulls Sam’s hand out of his mouth and looks at the small slice on the pad of his index finger. The skin is pale, and for a moment Dean can see the cut isn’t that deep. Then, like it knew Dean was done examining the severity of the site, blood wells up once again, trickling to form a small pool that absurdly reminds Dean of a ladybug.

Sam yanks his hand away from Dean. “It’s nothing, Dean,” Sam says. “Go back to bed.”

Dean ignores him to find their first aid kit, which is somewhere in their duffle of guns and knives and bones. He finds the plastic red box at the bottom next to a flask of holy water.

Despite his initial protestations, Sam does nothing when Dean pours a generous amount of hydrogen peroxide over his finger, dries the area with his shirt, and slaps on a bandaid.

This is routine. Dean’s been putting bandaids on Sam since he could walk. Sam would walk and stumble and cry when his knees roughed up against the carpet at their motel of the week or the gravely roads they stopped to eat lunch at. Dean bandaged Sam when he got injured on his first hunt - a chupacabra in New Mexico that got its teeth into Sam’s leg. Dean fixed up Sam’s knuckles when he’d been so frustrated with their dad that he’d punched a hole in the wall.

_Take care of your brother, Dean._

Was Sam ever given similar orders?

Dean smooths the bandaid into place and finally looks up at Sam. He can still see, like an overlay, the resentment, the revulsion that was on Sam’s face in the asylum. Dean’s heart hammers a little harder against his chest, where he can still feel the spray of the rock salt fire into his skin.

_Why are we even here? ’Cause you're following Dad's orders like a good little solider? Because you always do what he says without question? Are you that desperate for his approval?_

Beneath the veneer of the past, Sam wears that infuriatingly guilty expression. Dean could never hate his brother, but he has to remind himself that even though it was Sam’s face who looked at him from the other end of the gun, it wasn’t Sam who said all those worse, who pulled the trigger.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers, his eyes shiny with remorse. “Dean-”

“Need me to kiss it better?” Dean cuts Sam off before things can go deeper, before they can discuss the truth of the words said in the asylum. His chest hurts, his head hurts, and all he wants to do is finish his burger and take a nap and not think about how everything is his fault: Dad’s disappearing act, Jess’s death…

Sam sighs through his nose and glares at Dean sufferingly.

Soon enough, Sam’s going to leave too.


End file.
